


Breukelen 99

by MediumSizedEvil



Series: Really Ridiculous AU's [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Hot Fuzz (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amazing Stroopwafels, Crossover, F/M, Gay or European?, Not Putting Any Labels On It, Old Amsterdam, Old World Sophistication, Power Plug Type C (230V), Warning: Contains Nuts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-02 03:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19190602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MediumSizedEvil/pseuds/MediumSizedEvil
Summary: Hotshot Amsterdam cop Jacco Peereboom gets transferred to the sleepy village of Breukelen, where nothing ever happens. Or so it would seem..."What deranged and twisted mind could conceive of such evil deeds of average proportions?"Or: Welcome to the wonderful land of MediumSizedEvil. We're going to the OG Brooklyn! It will be hot. It will be wet. And there'll be plenty of custard. Fasten your seatbelts, we are approaching Schiphol Airport.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Even old New York was once New Amsterdam. Why they changed it I can't say. People just liked it better that way."
> 
> Brooklyn is named after the Dutch village of [Breukelen](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Breukelen). That is my only excuse for writing this ridiculous AU. Of course it's a shameless homage to Hot Fuzz (2007), the best cop movie ever made.

**Ne usquam deesset stultitiæ condimentum**

(There should not be anything without a seasoning of folly)

_Mōrias enkōmion, sive, Stultitiæ laus. Desiderius Erasmus Roterodamus, 1511_

  


"Frankly, you've been making us all look bad," Commissaris Johan Kelder told Inspecteur Jacobus 'Jacco' Peereboom in his well-appointed office with view of the Amstel. Jacco was not surprised. He had the highest arrest record of the whole Amsterdam Politiekorps. He was an expert marksman, a dab hand with a katana and a leading authority on transcendental meditation and fresh produce. They called him The Night Watch, The Jewish Bride, and sometimes, during a stakeout, Still Life with Fruit. 

Commissaris Kelder paused dramatically. "I'm transferring you to Breukelen."

Jacco gasped loudly. Breukelen? That was like the end of the world. It wasn't quite Oost-Groningen, but it was bad enough. But then basically everything outside of the glorious capital was a barren waste land devoid of even a shred of civilisation, especially Rotterdam. Unfortunately there was no persuading the stone-cold Commissaris, and so to Breukelen he must go. And then it started to rain.

 

Jacco stood in the crowded commuter train clutching his Japanese peace lily and watching 't IJ disappear behind him. He was going to miss Amsterdam and everything about it: the smell of poffertjes and stale beer, Canal Pride, vomiting tourists, diamond heists, skating to work in the winter months, the Vondelpark in spring, Albanian prostitutes, birds that shit on your head...it was the best city in the world. And it was his city. Born and bred in the Jordaan, the Amstel flowed through his veins, Anne was his homegirl, and Mokum was his place.

He morosely munched on what might be his last oxen sausage sandwich in a long time and looked out of the train window. They slowly passed the Johan Cruijff Arena, the IKEA and the AMC, where a hot Dokter had removed a piece of glitter from his cornea once. His job was not without risks.

In the distance he could see the planes circling Schiphol. Perhaps one of them contained his father, Gezagvoerder Rogier Peereboom, who flew for KLM Cityhopper. He was always bragging about how often he shared a cockpit with His Majesty Koning Willem-Alexander, who only ruled the land as a part-time job - because it was so tiny - and spent the rest of his time as a regional airline pilot. Even His Excellency Minister-President Rutte moonlighted as a social science teacher on Thursdays.

Jacco stared out of the window. They had left Amsterdam behind now. The train passed fields with cows, more fields with cows, empty fields, and more fields with cows. He was starting to break out in a cold sweat. The polder was so flat that you could see for miles to the horizon, and it greatly unsettled him.

The train finally arrived at the station in Breukelen, and from there he made his way to Straatweg 99 with his Japanese peace lily. (It looked just like a normal house on Google Maps but it was a police station.) Jacco entered and looked around. "Hey, are you the new guy?" a friendly voice asked.

Jacco put down his Japanese peace lily and shook his offered hand. "Yes, I'm Jacco Peereboom, with Double E-R-E, and my favourite movie is Amsterdamned (1988)."

"Karel Buil, I'm your new partner!" he said enthusiastically. "So you're from Amsterdam? Have you ever fired two guns whilst jumping through the air shouting aaaaaaah?"

"Many times," Jacco admitted. "It was just me against the worst of the Mocro Mafia. No-go zones, exploding cars, burning politicians, I've seen it all. They've had to add a whole new wing to the Bijlmerbajes because of me."

Karel was impressed. "I'll let the Hoofdinspecteur know you're here." He looked around. "Hey, Ramon!"

The man addressed as such turned around and walked over. "Hi, you must be Jacco?"

He nodded, and they shook hands.

"Welcome. I'm Raymondus Jacobus Franciscus Engelbertus Godefridus Maria van der Hout, Hoofdinspecteur of the Breukelen Politiekorps, but just call me Ramon."

"Nice to meet you, Ramon."

"I'll quickly introduce you to the rest of the Korps. This is Roos over here."

She gave a firm handshake. "Roos Dagelet. I'm bi."

"Me too, sort of," Jacco replied casually. "Not putting a label on it."

"Cool."

"And this is Amalia Zandstra," Ramon continued. She was really cute.

"Hi, nice to meet you," she said. "I'm sure you'll fit right in."

Jacco grinned. "Title of your sex tape!"

Amalia looked confused. "No, it's called 'Dirty Cop Rides Horny Stud in Bath of Custard'."

"It's really good," Roos said. "You should check it out."

Jacco frowned. "What kind of custard?"

"Chocolate and vanilla custard."

Ramon walked over to a desk in the corner. "And this is my Administratief Medewerker (m/v), Jennie Lijnzaad."

"Hi, nice ass," she said.

"Jennie, that is not appropriate in the workplace," Ramon gently corrected her.

"She's right though," Jacco objected. "Hey, did we just become best friends?"

"Yup." They shared a high five, a fist bump, and then a high five instinctively.

"And then there's Thierry Scheffers, but he's not in today because he only works four days a week, and today is his daddy day."

Jacco nodded. "Work-life balance is very important. Especially since we only have 25 legally mandated paid vacation days per year."

"Indeed," Ramon agreed. "Well, I'm sure you'll want to get right to work. Oh, someone's here, can you take care of that?"

"Sure," Jacco said, and walked up to the reception desk, where an unwashed youth of Breukelen was waiting. "Hey, what's up?"

"Somebody stole my weed," he complained.

"Was it less than 5 grams?" Jacco asked.

"Yeah, but it was really good stuff."

"Ok, then just fill in this aangifteformulier."

He started scribbling on the form in the most terrible handwriting.

"Why don't you just submit it online?" Jacco asked. "What are you, 80?"

He shrugged. "Battery's dead."

Amalia walked up to the reception desk. "I'll take this, you go on patrol with Karel and get a feel for the place."

He smiled at her. "Thanks." She was such a sweetheart.

Karel and Jacco grabbed their bikes and cycled through the sleepy little village at a leasurely pace, greeting the natives and their canines along the way. (Although he loved cycling Jacco sometimes wished he had one of those 70's Politie Porsches.) They criss-crossed the whole village and Karel showed him all the sights: the windmill. That was it. 

"So what kind of crime do you get around here?"

"Oh, just your regular bike theft, escaped swan, bicycle theft, neighbours' dispute, e-bike theft, missing person, missing bike, domestic violence, stolen tandem bicycle, etc., etc." Karel summed up. "So basically nothing ever happens here."

They passsed a picturesque drawbridge across the Vecht, and Jacco felt a keen ache for the Magere Brug. Then Karel got a call. "I'm sorry we have to interrupt our tour," he said regretfully, "We've only circled the village five times yet. But there has been an incident at the marina, and Ramon is asking us to respond because Amalia used to boink the Havenmeester, Ted van de Wal, before she dumped him."

“Cold cold cold cold cold,” Jacco remarked. “Indubitably.”

"She found out he couldn't drive a stick."

Jacco started laughing so hard he almost fell off his bike. But he didn't, because he was an experienced cyclist. "What a loser," he said, wiping tears from his eyes while zipping up his jacket and swerving around some roadkill.

They cycled to the marina and met Ted by the waterside. "How's Amalia?" he asked woefully. "One of these days I'm going to drown myself in the Loosdrechtste Plassen."

"Please don't," Karel urged. "Bloated corpses stink."

"Well, I have a fresh one for you," Ted said despondently.

They followed him to a holiday cottage on the shore, where a middle-aged man wearing beige shorts, a checkered shirt and white socks in sandals was lying on the kitchen tiles in a pool of blood.

“One thing is certain, there has been a crime here,” Jacco observed with metropolitan eyes. He took off his sunglasses. “A crime of fashion.”

Next to the victim on the floor were a cheese slicer and a pound of extra mature gouda cheese. Karel kneeled down and carefully examined all the details. "Ah, the Boska Milano, the Rolls-Royce of cheese slicers. Excellent choice." He then observed that the refridgerator door was still open. "He probably tried to remove the cheese crust right after taking the extra mature cheese out of the fridge. Rookie mistake. The cheese slicer must have slipped and cut his aorta." He removed the victim's wallet from his breast pocket and opened it. "Aha, a German tourist. That explains a lot. About the socks, but also the cheese.”

Jacco frowned. “No matter how thin you slice it, there are always two sides,” he quoted his favourite philosopher, Baruch Spinoza. “Now how could a cheese sl-”

"What?" Karel turned to Jacco with an annoyed look. "It's just like a shaving accident, but with cheese." He sighed. "You're from the big city, you're used to seeing murder everywhere. Things like that just don't happen around here."

"But-"

"I am the lead on this case and I'm ruling it accidental death by cheese slicer." He took off his sunglasses. " _Käse_ closed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want a short primer on The Netherlands please watch this music video: [15 Million People](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8b_et-rfyM)


	2. Chapter 2

At the end of an eventful first day Jacco left the police station at 5:00 PM sharp and dropped his Japanese peace lily off at his Airbnb. " _Koko ni iro_ " (stay here), he told her. Then he opened the curtains to enjoy everyone looking inside from the street. The room was very cheap, and since he was renting out his houseboat to tourists during the week he was actually making a shitload of money.

But none of that could heal the ache in his heart for the Dam in 'dam. The Kerkbrink in Breukelen was but a poor substitute for the most magnificent square in the history of all mankind, surpassing even the ancient plaza of Teotihuacan featuring the Temple of the Feathered Serpent Quetzalcoatl. I mean, did the Maya have a Bijenkorf? No. Dam Square for the win. Although, Jacco had to admit, the Kerkbrink did have a rather nice statue of two geese.

As he aimlessly strolled along the quiet streets he suddenly realised he needed some groceries, like custard, so he googled the Albert Heijn. But there was no AH in Breukelen. His heart missed a beat, and he sank down in despair. He did not even dare to search for alternatives, lest it be a Jumbo, or even an Aldi. He removed his treasured AH Bonuskaart from his wallet and stared at it for a long time. Would he have to eat it?

He almost started crying there and then but he had to stay strong like his hero, Inspecteur Eric Visser from the movie Amsterdamned (1988), in the face of adversity. But he wanted sushi from the Okura or a rice table at Kantjil so badly right now. Or even a quick falafel on the Muntplein. He looked around but he only saw a particularly sad-looking Chin. Ind. Restaurant, so he went to snackbar Ed Kroket. He suspiciously eyed the snacks in the wall. He couldn't bear to eat a croquette that was not from Van Dobben, that fine establishment in the Reguliersdwarsstraat, where he always went to get his mouth stuffed.

Karel suddenly appeared around the corner. "So what are you having?"

He secretly wanted a kapsalon but he would never admit to it, because this culinary masterpiece - by Dutch standards – had been invented in Rotterdam. "I'll have fries with ah, you know," he ordered at last. "Fuckin' drown 'em in it." He immediately thought of Annick, the cute cop from Antwerp he'd worked on a diamond case with, and whose delicious mayonaise he would gladly taste again.

As if reading his thoughts Karel pondered, "You know, one time I went to a supermarket in Belgium and they had a whole aisle full of mayonaise. I was clearly born in the wrong country."

Jacco agreed. For a gourmet like Karel any other country would have been luckier, even Ethiopia in a famine. He longingly thought of Addis Ababa on the Egelantiersgracht and their perfect yebeg alicha, ye'dubba wot, and beyeaynetu speciaal. In a culinary sense the only thing the Dutch were good at was stealing other people's food and spices. That and stroopwafels, he supposed. And a few choice desserts like custard. And cheese of course, although it was not considered unpatriotic to enjoy some French fromage on the side.

"I have frequent nightmares about bland, overcooked vegetables,” Karel continued his lowland lament. “And my wife Geneviève is mad about skiing and mountain biking; she is not at all inclined to this depressing flatness.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder what the hell we're still doing here."

"Let's get drunk," Jacco suggested. He needed to share his misery, and he could always water his Japanese peace lily and meditate transcendentally tomorrow. Then a new realisation hit him, and he started banging his head against the snack wall. "I want a craft beer from Brouwerij 't IJ!"

"Too bad, peanut spread," Karel said philosophically. "Let's just grab a beer, eh?"

Jacco looked up mournfully. "As long as it's not Heineken piss."

"Do you think you could stomach a Grolsch?" Karel inquired delicately.

Jacco groaned. "Only because I'm desperate."

"Come on, man," Karel urged him. "Perhaps they'll have some Belgian Trappist in the cellar."

 

The next morning Jacco was pretty hung over but he managed to make it to work on time because of all the bloody farm animals making a racket to wake him up early. At the police station they all put their chairs in a circle and did the morning briefing together.

"Everyone please review the new Benelux directive on cross-border policing," Ramon reminded them in a non-hierarchical, supportive manner, demonstrating cooperative leadership and inspiring them to be their best selves. "Remember we are only 59 minutes from the Belgian border, although god forbid you will ever have to drive on those roads."

Jacco nodded. "I once chased a suspect all the way across the border to Oberhausen and busted him with 10 kilos of Bolivian cocaine, just because I felt like bratwurst. _Zwei Seelen wohnen, ach! in meiner Brust_ ," he quoted bisexually. "So do you get a lot of coke around here?"

"No, not really," Amalia said. "Except at Nyenrode University."

"Wait, what? That's here?"

"Yes, it's right next door. Do you ever look at a map?" Amalia reproached him. "But yeah, lots of rich cunts there doing MBA's, snorting mountains of cocaine."

"But back to important matters," Ramon gently steered them back on topic. "We've had several reports of underpants being stolen from washing lines. Witnesses described seeing a man of small stature wearing a hat. The motive remains unclear. So let's keep an eye out, alright? Oh, and there has been an incident at the Lawn Tennis Vereniging Breukelen. Karel and Jacco, can you please go and have a look?"

“And the printer is jammed,” Jennie whined.

“Well who put jam in the printer?” Thierry exclaimed, and went over to investigate.

Karel and Jacco got on their bikes and cycled to the Lawn Tennis Vereniging Breukelen, where a friendly gentleman was waiting for them at the clubhouse.

"This is Kees Koster," Karel introduced them, "the Voorzitter of the Lawn Tennis Vereniging Breukelen, and Ramon's husband."

"Hi, I'm Kees." He shook Jacco's hand. "And yes, we've been gay married for 18 years now, longer than anyone else on the planet."

Jacco felt a surge of pride for his tiny country, the liberalest of them all, a shining light for the world, a beacon of hope in dark times, a progressive lowland paradise, etc., etc.

"But we are here for the incident, not to bask in the reflected glory of other people's achievements," Karel reminded him.

"Yes, please come through to the back office," Kees said invitingly, "Where I found the Penningmeester of the Lawn Tennis Vereniging Breukelen dead this morning. He choked on a surfeit of stroopwafels."

"Well, they're just too delicious," Karel said. "I can see how that could happen. But what a way to go." 

In the back office Karel looked at the disconcerting scene with the dead Penningmeester and paused to think. "What kind of stroopwafels do you have here at the Lawn Tennis Vereniging Breukelen?"

"The good ones, from the bakery," Kees replied. " _Omnia cum pretio_."

Karel sniffed a crumb. "Yes, they're from Brokking. That explains a lot." He further observed the scene. "I see he was warming another stroopwafel on a cup of tea. Excellent technique. I personally feel that 10 seconds in the microwave is an unacceptable shortcut. Our ways are the old ways." He took a step back and nodded gravely. "Well, he obviously gorged himself on the most delicious, delectable delicacies from Breukelen's Bakker Brokking and died."

"But-"

"Cause of death: the sin of gluttony," Karel concluded calvinistically.

"But-"

"Hold your waffle."

The rest of Jacco's first week in Breukelen progressed in a similar manner; lots of recreational cycling punctuated by suspicious incidents and flat tires. Except on Thursday, because it was Thierry's birthday so they all put their chairs in a circle and sang 'There Is One Birthdaying'. Thierry had brought muliple pies fresh from Venlo that morning in all their favourite flavours: apple crumble, apricot lattice, cherry deluxe, marshmellow, stroopwafel and rice.

Jennie frowned. "Don't you have any hopjes pie?"

"No, Jennie," Thierry replied, "Because hopjes pie only exists in your imagination."

"Argh! But I want it!" she exclaimed dramatically. "Kill me now." She sank down in her luxurious office chair. “And the toilet is clogged,” she whined.

“Well who put a clog in the toilet?” Thierry exclaimed, and went to investigate.

Jacco grabbed a slice of rice pie and Jennie got back on the phone with Phillippe, her Canadian penpal. “Why don't you come over and move your beautiful body all over my Schengen area,” she moaned. “No barriers. Let's do it,” she urged, tempting him with the irresistible prospect of a wild ride through 26 of the most breathtaking European countries, allowing convenient border-free travel as established in the Treaty of Schengen (1985).

Jacco nodded approvingly. The nation had a collective crush on Canada ever since the time they'd dropped in and politely charmed everyone's pants off while killing Nazis, like a sexy version of the French. And they had earned every bit of appreciation from then to eternity with blood shed on Dutch soil. He had personally shown many a Canuck some Amsterdam hospitality in the line of duty.

Meanwhile he was munching on his rice pie and was forced to admit that it was very good, despite coming from Venlo. Amalia was having rice pie as well and this confirmed to Jacco that they must be soulmates, as it was rather an acquired taste. Karel was still sniffing the stroopwafel pie, unable to come to a decision. You could never quite trust anything from Venlo, one of the gates to Hell. Not metaphorically speaking, as in the German border (they'd actually been pretty decent neighbours for the last 70 years or so) but literally Satan's ass. In the end Karel decided to cycle 38 kilometers to Gouda, home of the stroopwafel, and bake his own stroopwafel pie.

Friday morning found Jacco taking care of his paperwork while stuffing his face with leftover cherry deluxe pie. As an expert in fresh produce he could confirm that the cherries were indeed deluxe. (A teeny-tiny country doesn't become the second-largest agricultural exporter in the world without people knowing their shit.) In fact, he strongly suspected that these cherries had been made deluxe in a sophisticated lab at the world-renowned Wageningen University, the earth's leading agricultural research institute, where they altered the very fabric of life without so much as a train station.

I mean, even Breukelen had one, not to mention other shitholes like Heiloo, Goor, Heino, Hurdegaryp (Gem. Tytsjerksteradiel), Horst-Sevenum, Venlo and Rotterdam. Oh and Tilburg, may it sink into a swamp. Now of course Amsterdam, unlike poor Wageningen, had no less than 12 NS stations and as many as 2 preeminent and venerable universities (see Times Higher Education list, 2019). 

Jacco looked out of the window. It had started to rain. That was good for the plants. He was spitting out a stray cherry pit when Ramon approached his desk. "Hey Jacco, would you please come and see me at my flexible work space at such a time as would be most convenient to you?" he asked in a non-intrusive and egalitarian manner.

Jacco nodded. He got along with everyone on the team, but he was starting to regard Ramon almost as a brother figure. As an only child he had always longed for such an intimate connection. He finished his cherry deluxe pie first and then grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down on Ramon's desk. "So what's up, Ray-man?"

He sighed. "Well, Jacco, I asked Karel to show you the ropes around here because he is very experienced in rural policing. It requires a light touch and a very special set of skills, which can only be honed through years of experience in the _field_ , so to speak. And you are greener than grass in this line of work. But now I hear from Karel that you have been questioning the way we do things around here. Surely that can't be true?"

Jacco took a deep breath and spoke frankly, as is the custom in these parts, even to ones in a pay grade slightly above one's own. Or just to anyone, really. Tell the Koning he's a cunt who can't fly planes for shit. So many bumpy landings, from you and dad, on KLM Cityhopper flights to various short-haul regional destinations in Europe. So Jacco expectorated the truth, and nothing but the truth to Ramon. "Well you see, I couldn't help but observe that although the murder rate here is very low, the accident rate is unusually high. And I'm starting to suspect there might be something sinister going on here in Breukelen."

"You must be imagining things, because nothing ever happens here." Ramon shook his head with pity. "Some people think rural policing is easy..." he said scathingly. "Is the strain finally getting to you?"

"The strain of what? Cycling around the village in matching outfits? That's what pensioners do!" Jacco rolled his eyes to the heavens. "I used to solve crimes and catch bad guys while jumping over drunken Brits and giving out tourist information!"

Ramon frowned. "Get out, Peereboom. Get out!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Zwei Seelen wohnen, ach! in meiner Brust_ : Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust. Eine Tragödie von Goethe: Der Tragödie erster Teil. Tübingen, J. G. Cotta, 1808, 1112 - 1117. (Two souls live, alas! in my breast)
> 
> _Omnia cum pretio_ : Decimus Iunius Iuvenalis, Saturae III. 1st century CE, 183-184. (Everthing comes at a price)


	3. Chapter 3

Jacco shrugged and went to the break room where Amalia and Thierry were eating their cheese sandwiches. He grabbed his lunch box and took his milk out of the fridge.

"So what are you doing this weekend?" Jacco asked with a mouth full of chocolate sprinkles.

"Oh, either an abortion or euthanesia," Amalia replied. "I just can't decide."

"Well I hope it's an abortion, otherwise we'll have to finish all your paperwork on Monday."

She smiled. “Just kidding. I'm going to the Efteling Theme Park, named Best Theme Park in the world by Theme Park Insider more than once."

"That is also fun," he conceded.

"It's the most magical place on earth," Thierry agreed. "My girls love the racist teacups. But be careful in Brabant. Last time I tried to buy fresh asparagus from a farm I accidentally busted an XTC lab. So much paperwork."

She nodded. "And what about you, Jacco?"

"Oh I'm going back to Amsterdam as soon as possible. I'm taking the first train after I finish up here."

"But there are no trains to Amsterdam," she said. "They're working on the tracks this weekend."

"Cunt NS!" Jacco swore, although technically it was ProRail's fault. Well, he could always go by bike, it was only 32 kilometers. Unfortunately there was a pepernoot in his back tire. He tried to get a shared car but there were none, and he couldn't afford a taxi. Nobody could. Why were there even taxis? For American tourists probably. He desperately wished he had a boat so he could sail up the Amsterdam-Rijnkanaal, but it looked like he was stuck in goddamn Breukelen for the weekend.

Later, lying on his bed he wondered what people did on the weekend in Breukelen. Knitting? If he was in Amsterdam right now he'd either be watching a hot new band at the Melkweg, clubbing at Akhnaton or the Westergasfabriek, stalking Huub Stapel, chilling at the Supperclub or cruising the Reguliersdwarsstraat. Or maybe he'd give Carice a call, she wasn't doing much right now.

Just then he got a message, it was from Femke. She was getting very clingy. He would have to brush her off, but he didn't have the heart to tell her he had left her beautiful city. He wondered if the chains of office were weighing down on her as the first female Burgemeester after 700 years of pure sexism. Despite everything he wished her well, and he would never regret saving her life from the tompouce terrorist.

But it definitely wasn't happening for him this weekend. Jacco sighed. He tried to find his hot soulmate's home video, but he couldn't remember the title and he got very weird results for 'Amalia sex tape'. (It also happened to be the name of his dad's colleague's eldest daughter, i.e. the 15 year old heir to the custard throne.) He was probably on some list now. He suddenly felt like orange custard.

Then his thoughts drifted back to his own Amalia of legal age, the crown princess of his heart, whose stamp he hoped to lick one day. At this very moment she might be freefalling 40 meters into an abandoned mineshaft, sailing on an accursed ship from the Dutch Golden Age, vomiting in the racist teacups, riding the choo-choo train through the lake, breaking down into incontrollable sobbing at the tragic story of The Little Match Girl, experiencing the full horrors of Brabant in the mother of all madhouses or floating in a magical world of fairies and gnomes. He imagined sitting next to her in Droomvlucht, the iconic Efteling darkride, and sharing a romantic bowl of raspberry custard. But none of that could come to pass this weekend.

He had not been able convince any of his Amsterdam friends to try slumming with him in Breukelen, and none of his new colleagues here had time to hang out with him either. Karel was on a romantic weekend break with Geneviève to Charleroi in Belgium, Thierry was attending the Elf Fantasy Fair at Haarzuijlens Castle, Roos was on the IJmuiden-Newcastle ferry for a motorbike trip to Scotland, Jennie was getting herself weighed in Oudewater to determine if she was a witch, and Ramon and Kees were washing their caravan.

So Jacco watered his Japanese peace lily, meditated transcendentally and graded some fruit at the market. He plucked his metropolitan eyebrows and consumed a good helping of Spinoza, contemplating intellectualistic pantheism until dinner time. He prepared spinach with a boiled egg, crumbly potatoes and a blind finch, a traditional meat specialty. He made a volcano from spinach and mashed potatoes on his plate and filled the active crater with gravy. It was a satisfying eruption of flavour. 

After dinner he watched an old rerun of 'Creative with Cork' but it did not inspire him to get creative with cork. And then it started to rain. He suddenly remembered that he had to take in the laundry. He cursed loudly when he found out his underpants were missing.

Later he checked his phone. It looked like his friends were enjoying Amsterdam's hottest new club, Het DEM! Located in an abandoned church, this place had everything: a doorbitch called Manfred, locally sourced DJ Mo Kum, a hovercraft full of smoked eels, hot students with popped collars shouting vulgar Latin, a satay grill, energy efficient, bicycle powered strobe lights, a Van Gogh impersonator with only one ear, deconstructed mushroom soup, and a Jip & Janneke inspired darkroom. 'Fuck you Steef,' he wrote back, green with envy, before crying himself to sleep.

On Sunday morning he wandered aimlessly about town as everything was closed. In the end he went to sit by the shore of the Vecht and watched rich old farts sail by in their plastic margarine tubs, wearing nautical themed pashmina afghans.

On his way back he didn't pay attention while morosely crossing the bicycle path and almost got run over by a gaggle of teens riding four abreast, calling him old and telling him to get out of the way in salty terms as they went about their business being the happiest children in the world, according to UNICEF figures. And why wouldn't they be, when they went wherever the hell they wanted on their bikes and ate chocolate sprinkles for breakfast. But chocolate sprinkles could not console him now, not even chocolate sprinkles on vanilla custard.

After a very disappointing weekend he got in early on Monday.

"Hey good morning, you dick," Karel greeted him affectionately. "Did you get laid?"

"No, I didn't. Where do people get laid around here?"

"At the bulb shed of course," Karel replied. “You can also score some sailing sorority girls from Utrecht on the Loosdrechtse Plassen if you're a good swimmer.”

"Well thanks for not telling me earlier." He had heard much about the male to female ratio at Utrecht University to encourage him, and he could do an impressive butterfly stroke.

"Sorry, I thought you were going back to town this weekend."

"Karel, Jacco," Ramon called. "There has been an incident at the Kortrijkse Molen. Could you please respond?"

They immediately got on their bikes.

“Last night I dreamt about annexing Flanders,” Karel confided in him. “And you?”

“A homoerotic volleyball montage, but with tall men,” Jacco admitted. Then he took in the harrowing spectacle in front of them and slowly turned to Karel. "Now what could finally convince you that there is a serial killer at large, if not a windmill full of corpses?"

"Don't be so quixotic," Karel reproached him. "It's just a quadruple suicide."

"One of them is your wife!"

"Well, like I told you Geneviève was very depressed because she was always pining for the Alps. It's called Heidi Syndrome." He sighed philosophically. "She wanted higher up, and now she's hanging from the top sail."

"And isn't that Ted from the marina?"

"Yes, and he literally told us he was going to kill himself, if you remember."

"But he said he was going to drown himself in the Loosdrechtse Plassen."

"I politely asked him not to, and he obliged me! See, this is why it's important to cultivate good community relations. Oh and Jennie on the left there, wasn't it only last week that she said 'Kill me now'?" Karel reminded him.

"But what about Kees here?" Jacco challenged him. "Ramon and he were the very picture of wholesome long-term matrimonial bliss. What reason could he possibly have to commit suicide?"

"Didn't you hear him complain that the stroopwafels from Brokking were too expensive? _Omnia cum pretio_. Or did they teach you nothing at the Barlaeus?"

Jacco reeled from this low blow to his beloved alma mater at the Weteringschans, where the brightest young citizens of Amsterdam received a well-rounded classical education in the great humanist tradition. " _Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo_ ," he spoke eloquently, a credit to his teachers. "And really, would you kill yourself because you can't afford superior stroopwafels?"

"I would!" Karel said. "What kind of question is that?"

"Well I like the ones from Albert Heijn just fine. If only I could get some," he added mournfully.

Karel gasped. "You are a fucking monster!"

"Can we get back on track, please?" Jacco asked, exasperated. "I believe we are dealing with a serial killer here. _Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle_ ," he reflected intellectually on the murders, while fondly recalling his myopic French teacher's unhealthy obsession with Yves Montand.

Karel sighed. "As I've been trying to explain, this was obviously a suicide pact. Now, rural suicide is an often misunderstood phenomenon, but if you can't see what's going on here than you are honestly denser than the Delta Works," he said, referring to one of the 7 Wonders of the Modern World according to the American Society of Civil Engineers.

"Actually they're semi-permeable," Jacco retorted. "You know what, figure it out yourself. You obviously don't need me here. I'm going back to the police station for a custard break."

Later, as he was brooding over his hopjes custard Amalia approached him. "Why are you so sad?"

"Karel just gravely insulted me," Jacco explained. "He dared to infer that I do not know my Classics, like some crude savage."

Amy shook her head. " _Μητροκοιτης_."

"And another thing, I think we may have a serial killer on our hands. And my underpants are missing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo_ : Gaius Valerius Catullus, Carmina Catulli. 16. c. 84 – c. 54 BCE, 1.  
> <https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Translation:Catullus_16>
> 
> _Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle_ : Jacques Prévert, Les Feuilles Mortes. 1945, 5.  
> <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xo1C6E7jbPw>
> 
> _Μητροκοιτης (Metrokoites)_ : Samberg et al. SNL Digital Shorts. New York, National Broadcasting Company, 2009.  
> <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X0DeIqJm4vM>


	4. Chapter 4

He explained his suspicions to Amalia and she listened to him attentively, agreeing that there might indeed be something sinister going on in Breukelen. They resolved to go through all the cases of the last six months to see if there were any more strange accidents that might be connected. They put their two chairs in a circle and got to work. During the afternoon they came across many incidents that appeared suspect at a second glance.

“Here, 'Forester drowned in fortgracht at Fort Tienhoven',” Amalia showed him.

"So?"

"It was frozen solid."

"Hmm. Ok, how about this one: 'Old lady found with cherry in windpipe at Van der Valk Hotel Restaurant',” Jacco wondered.

"Well that could happen."

"In the parking lot?"

It was already past 5:00 PM CET but they were still not finished. Jacco hated working overtime; they looked like a bunch of losers who couldn't get their normal workload done in the allotted timeframe. But he supposed he could make an exception for a serial killer. 

When they got hungry they ordered some babi pangang with nasi from the Chinese Wall, the shady Chin. Ind. Restaurant near the HEMA. Jacco thought it didn't look kosher but it tasted fine. It wasn't as good as the authentic Surinam roti they'd had at Ramon's last Wednesday though. All things considered Suriname had been a good trade for New Amsterdam, where they only had disgusting pizzas, Jacco pondered. (He was proud of his Italian roots, despite being distantly related to Marco Borsato, the plebeian polder performer.) He put the leftover nasi in the freezer to heat up with a fried egg some other time because it must not be wasted. Then they got back to catching a serial killer, working until deep in the night. They needed to find the missing link that connected all these strange events, and would lead them to the culprit.

"The frequency of the attacks seems to increasing," Amalia observed.

He nodded. "These incidents are very worrying indeed."

"Terrible even!" she insisted.

"I mean it's not quite genocide or Frans Bauer in Concert, but it's pretty bad," Jacco agreed.

"What deranged and twisted mind could conceive of such evil deeds of average proportions?" Amalia wondered.

"Deranged you say? Yes, you're right! These murders do have one thing in common: they were all utterly insane." Jacco slapped his hand on the table. "So that leads me to conclude that they could only have been committed by the re-animated corpse of Prins Bernhard."

Amy nodded in agreement, as a new realisation dawned on her. "And since he was the head of the Bilderberg Global Conspiracy™ that means the trail leads to..."

"Nyenrode!" "Nijenrode!" they both chanted in unison.

"Wait," Jacco asked, "Did you say Nijenrode or Nyenrode?"

"Nijenrode is the name of the castle, Nyenrode is the anglicised name of the university."

"Ok, thanks for clearing that up. So we need to break into Nyenrode at Nijenrode. Hey, have you ever seen Floris?"

"With Michiel Huijsman?"

"No, the old one with Rutger Hauer."

"Nope."

"Nevermind. My point is, we're going to break into the castle and we're going to look cool doing it." 

They quickly grabbed their gear and stealthily cycled through the dark like in some movie about the Resistance. "Let's bag that kraut," Jacco spoke ingloriously. "As the great Leonardo said, 'Do not underestimate the Dutch'."

"He really said that?"

"Yes, in The Man in the Iron Mask (1998)."

"Oh, then I really need to watch it again," Amalia pondered.

"Well to be honest I think it's very overrated. I much prefer Critters 3 (1991).”

At the castle Jacco put on his scuba gear and stepped into the gracht, because that's what Inspecteur Eric Visser from the movie Amsterdamned (1988) would do. He briefly lingered at the surface. "So what's your favourite cop movie?" he asked.

"Well, we only have one."

He nodded and submerged. Then he entered the castle in the coollest way possible, stubbing his toe on a trapdoor. Once inside he stalked along the dark, empty corridors but he could find nothing suspicious except for mountains of cocaine. But he was here for serious crime.

Amalia radio'd in. "Can you check your pocket? I've packed you a potassium-rich snack."

He gratefully uncovered a banana, which was extra. Literally, it was classified as Extra, the highest grade, per European Commission Regulation No. 2257/94. He admired its perfect curvature and blemish-free exterior by the romantic light of the moon and silently blessed the European Union, of which The Netherlands was a founding member, for its glorious uniformity of standards which elevated the quality of life for all those on the continent and far beyond. This is known as the Brussels Effect (see Bradford, Anu).

After taking a few bites he suddenly heard the sound of shuffling feet in the distance. He dove into a narrow alcove and meditated transcendentally while finishing his banana. They didn't call him Still Life with Fruit for nothing. He put the banana peel back in his pocket to compost responsibly later.

Then he pulled out his Walther P99Q-NL, which was like a regular Walther P99 only better. James Bond had a P99 but no Q, not to mention the distinct lack of NL. Enfin, ergo, he was cooler than James Bond. Even his bad guys were more interesting, like this one belonging to the realm of the supernatural instead of some boring villain with a murder hat. He stealthily moved into the direction of the sound of undeadness, gun at the ready. The Night Watch was on patrol; the moonlight adding a suitable chiaroscuro effect to the scene.

He turned around the corner and there it was, lurking in the shadows: His Royal Highness Bernhard Leopold Frederik Everhard Julius Coert Karel Godfried Pieter, Prins der Nederlanden, Prins van Lippe-Biesterfeld, risen from the dead. The man was a legend, he'd had as many affairs as Rogier Peereboom and shagged Koningin Juliana matrimonially, which was more than his father could boast despite his best efforts. His hobby was the conservation of elephants in order to shoot them. Therefore he had just the right level of petty, bizarre evil that matched the Breukelen murders and made Jacco suspect him in the first place. And his hunch was right. There was an undead spectre haunting the village, and he must defeat it in order to restore entropy in the thermodynamic equilibrium.

He first tried to de-escalate the situation in a non-violent manner, as per procedure, but His Royal Highness was not susceptible to reason so he had no choice but to shoot him full of holes. However, he appeared unperturbed by the intrusion and years of police experience had taught Jacco that in cases such as these only decapitation would suffice. Unfortunately he had given away his position, and His Royal Highness charged at him and threw him hurtling through the air.

He crashed into a display case with artifacts commemorating 400 years of fruitful trade relations between The Netherlands and Japan: from Deshima to Toshiba. He crawled over shards of broken glass, intricately decorated miniature lacquer cases used to carry small items called _inrō_ , a mud-dyed silk kimono from the island of Amami Oshima, and a Hello Kitty vibrator. Then he unsheathed a katana from the _Shinshintō_ period (1764 - 1876¹) and assumed his final form: The Jewish Bride.

> ¹He followed Kōkan Nagayama's seminal work _Token Kantei Dokuhon_ on the correct dating of the _Shinshintō_ period, and not Wikipedia.

"I've just defeated the ultimate evil," he told Amalia on the drawbridge. "Thanks for the Extra banana." 

"No problem. A potassium-rich snack can really make a difference in a tight spot."

She smiled at him, and he felt invincible. He took a deep breath. "Hey, do you maybe want to go out on a date some time and split the bill?"

"Sure," she said. "And perhaps you could eat me out afterwards?"

He nodded. "Deal. Consent is so sexy. Also, would you say no to a threesome with Carice van Houten? Although Black Book (2006) is overrated, I much prefer-"

Just then his phone rang, and he answered it with a sigh. “LEAVE ME ALONE, FEMKE!...Oh hello, Commissaris Kelder...Well, why are you using her phone? Wait, I don't want to know...Aha...Aha...Yes, that's terrible...Those poor Brits...I see...Well thanks for the offer, Commissaris, but I think I'll stay in Breukelen." He smiled at Amalia. "It's my kind of place...Oh, is she crying now? Not my problem."

He hung up the phone and turned to Amalia. "Also, I've just realised that someone must have unleashed this ancient evil on the world, nefariously no doubt, so my work here isn't done yet. And I need to find my underpants.”

F I N


End file.
